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Malcolm, my connection, my boss for lack of a better term, did give me a laundry list of demands. Both of us laughed because that’s not how this works. He told me he’d informed the client that we would do what is in his best interests to keep him alive, that was our job. Guess the message didn’t register.
“I’m not a fucking travel agent. You didn’t come to me unless you figure your current life is probably going to get you killed. But I don’t want to know, I don’t want your sordid details I’m as disinterested in them as I am knowing what’s on your bucket list. You don’t want to take my package find someone else. Maybe whoever you find will better meet your needs.”
I shrug a shoulder. I’m not the only person in this business, we both know that and I drive the point home.
“And I’d guess more than likely your body will never be found. Or, take what I offer and maybe see a future. In a few years, maybe you talk to Malcolm again, throw him some more cash and get an upgrade. Live a different lifestyle if things have cooled off for you. But if you want to keep breathing, you’ll do what I tell you. Take the name I’m offering, take the blue-collar life, take the two-story walk-up rental, take the fucking subway everywhere and stop wasting my fucking time.”
All I can think about as he taps that fucking ring on the table is Ginger. How a piece of filth like this could taint our lives.
She will never know what I do. Never be in the same air space as this fuck. She’s too pure. Too innocent for this life.
Because I am here with him, he affects our lives and every second that ticks by I’m planning how to get out of this life and find something better for us both.
“You don’t value life, do you, Stas?” He uses my real name and my heart skips a beat.
A surge of heat courses down my body but I keep my poker face intact. No one is supposed to know my name.
I fight to keep my breathing even, eye him with boredom as my mind races through possible scenarios of how this could end. None of them are good.
“An existential discussion on life and its value—or lack thereof—is wasting valuable time. Time you don’t have. You do realize all my work,” I turn my hand upward and wave it over the papers and photos on the table between us, “is time sensitive. These offers are not indefinite. If you opt out of what is being offered…the new identity is solid, you will not be found.” I scan his face but find nothing, so press ahead. “But you keep fucking around and you miss the flight I’ve set up, the dominos fall and the entire thing falls apart. No more is Mr. Paul Finkle of Sherman, Minnesota, a possibility for you. You’ll stay Leonard Calfus. And you wouldn’t be here if that’s what you wanted.”
I glance at my watch and let out a sigh, fixing my eyes back on his. Weakness or indecision here is blood in the water and the sharks are hungry. It’s eat or be eaten and I have too much at stake to be anyone’s meal.
“You seem very confident, Mr. Pavlovich, for a man with things to lose.” He clears his throat on a half-smile that leaves my blood icy. Looking down at the papers in front of him, he continues, “I will not live this life. It’s for cretins.” He sneers and nods toward the proposed new identity I’ve created.
“Two things.” I play back, trying to not allow him the upper hand by seeing my reaction to the fact that he knows my full name. Something that’s supposed to be solidly secured. I’m known simply as Smith if any moniker is necessary, which it usually isn’t. “First, I didn’t fucking come to you. I don’t send out mailers or try to gather business with a fucking coupon in the Sunday paper. Second, you have thirty seconds to get your ass out of that chair and into the limo with me on the way to the airport. There, I’ll give you the rest of your documents, new accounts and your freedom. Clock starts now.”
I lock my eyes on him and silently begin the countdown.
His smile tells me he thinks I’m playing, but in twenty-three seconds when he’s watching the back of my head as I walk out the door he will think differently.
“Such a serious boy you are. You should learn to have more fun.” He narrows his eyes. Shifts in his chair, only slightly, but I pick up on the movement.
He’s deciding. Sociopath he may be, but he wants to stay alive. I can’t help it if setting him up in the lifestyle in which he is accustomed while staying here in the US isn’t possible.
